


Seize The Day

by siriusblue



Series: In A Hundred Lifetimes [12]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Based on a Tumblr Post, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Pre-Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-15 00:51:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16923489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siriusblue/pseuds/siriusblue
Summary: Human rights lawyer Mycroft Holmes makes a point of visiting a certain café every day so he can admire the work of art that is the barista Greg Lestrade. When things go badly in his work life, Mycroft finally finds the nerve to do something about his private life.





	Seize The Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bookjunkiecat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/gifts).



> This is written specially for bookjunkiecat whose Tumblr comment made all this possible. Also a little bird tells me it's their birthday soon so I.hope this is a suitable present.

SEIZE THE DAY

  
  


The stylist removed the cape and gently brushed the remaining coppery hairs onto the salon floor. He held the mirror up to the back of his client's head and received a nod of approval at the crispness of the undercut. 

 

Mycroft Holmes put his glasses back on and stood up.

 

“Lovely job as ever, Daniel.” Mycroft said, taking out his wallet and handing over a sheaf of notes. “See you in three weeks?”

 

“See you then, Mr Holmes.”

 

Mycroft picked up his briefcase and his umbrella and left the salon, merging with the other Londoners on a crisp April morning.

 

He made his way to Westminster, the walk being the only exercise he got these days, in search of coffee.

 

The senior partner at his law firm had told him, in no uncertain terms at his interview, that human rights legislation never slept. Mycroft, after a whirlwind six months, had reached his own conclusions.

 

Human beings were capable of more atrocities than were dreamt of in the mind of the most genocidal psychopath and, despite the heartbreak, unending cases and permanent sleep deprivation, Mycroft knew he never wanted to do anything else.

 

He refused to spend his money in faceless corporate coffee shops which exploited their workers at every end of the scale but this meant a seemingly eternal search for the perfect espresso.

 

Or it had been until he had come across Sally's. 

 

Sally's was independent, clean and generally just busy enough, whatever time Mycroft went in. They did fantastic espresso as well as delectable home baking but the most delectable thing in the whole establishment was the barista.

 

Greg, according to the name badge on his old-fashioned waiter's apron, 

was tall and dark haired with exquisite long-lashed eyes the exact colour of chocolate torte and a ready smile which never faltered no matter how busy the café got or how obnoxious the customer.

 

Mycroft liked to sit at a table facing the counter, slightly off to the side so his ogling of Greg's broad shoulders and gorgeous arse accentuated by the cut of his trousers wouldn't be so obvious.

 

The man was a work of art and Mycroft took the time to appreciate him. The other barista; a tall woman with long curly hair was of no interest to Mycroft but he fretted mildly that she might be to Greg.

 

Mycroft itched to get to know the man better, even ask him out,but hesitated. Surely someone so glorious wasn't unattached?

 

*

 

Sally Donovan nudged Greg none-too-gently in the ribs as the dapper man with the undercut and furled umbrella came into the café.

 

“Posh Boy's back,” she informed him with a grin. “Are you going to  _ talk  _ to him this time?”

 

Greg glared at her.

 

“Shut up, will you?”

 

“Nope. He fancies you, you clot. It's about time you got some. Let the hedge fund manager take care of you for a bit.”

 

“Hedge fund manager? Do you know something I don't?”

 

“He's bound to be something like that the way he dresses. Something in the City. Betcha. Or an accountant at some hipster firm. Trust me.”

 

“As far as I could throw a grand piano. And I can get my own dates, thank you very much.”

 

Ignoring Sally's disbelieving cry of “Since when?” Greg turned his attention back to the customers.

 

He smiled as the man approached the counter.

 

“Morning, sir. The usual?”

 

“Thank you, yes.”

 

Greg fiddled with the espresso machine, watching the dark liquid drip slowly into the tiny cup. When it was full he handed it to Mycroft in exchange for a five pound note.

 

“Looks like it might be a nice day,” volunteered Greg and cringed inwardly. As a conversation starter, it sucked.

 

Posh Boy looked startled, looking Greg in the eyes properly for the first time and Greg was struck by how blue they were.

 

“Yes. Let's hope the rain stays off.” he replied.

 

Greg was just about to speak again when Posh Boy's mobile rang.

 

“Excuse me, I have to take this,” he muttered, picking up his coffee and moving away leaving Greg standing there. He mentally shook himself and turned to serve his next customer.

 

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the redhead had gone visibly pale. Greg moved out from behind the counter and approached him.

 

“Are you okay?” Greg asked.” You're as white as a sheet.”

 

“I've just had some...I need to get to...excuse me.”

 

He took to his heels and Greg saw him flag down a cab outside.

 

“What was all that about?” Sally asked. Greg shrugged.

 

“I dunno but he took off like his pants were on fire. And he left his umbrella.”

 

“Put it in the kitchen,” Sally advised.” It'll give him another reason to come back.”

 

“Remind me why we're friends again?” laughed Greg as he picked up the abandoned brolly and examined it.

 

It certainly wasn't one you would pick up from Poundland. Black and elegant, it had a curved bamboo handle with a tiny silver plate attached. Greg squinted at the engraving.

 

“M.H.? Michael? Matthew? Nah, he doesn't look like a Matthew.”

 

“Maurice?” suggested Sally. “Martin?”

 

“Could be anything,” said Greg. “When he comes for it, I'll ask him.”

 

*

 

Mycroft glared at the immigration officer but the man remained oblivious, taking his time processing Mycroft through the system of visiting the detention centre. As Mycroft put practically everything he owned in the indicated locker he realised he had lost his umbrella. 

 

There was no time to fret, he followed the officer to one of the interview rooms. It was cold and cheerless and the chairs had been designed by a sadist. Mycroft sat and waited. In his time coming here, he had learned patience.

 

After half an hour the door opened and an elderly Arabic man dressed in a thin grey tracksuit came in, closely followed by another immigration official.

 

The older man's expression lightened a fraction when he saw Mycroft and he addressed him in Arabic.

 

“You have heard the news, my friend?”

 

“Suleiman, I am more sorry than you can possibly know.” Mycroft replied in the same language.

 

“I must return to Syria on the next available transport.”

 

“We did our best,” said Mycroft, his voice breaking. “But it wasn't good enough.”

 

“Do not grieve, my friend.” Suleiman said, his mouth turning up at the corners briefly. “I have lived a long life and have no regrets. If Allah wishes me to join him in Paradise sooner that I had planned, it matters little. The children and grandchildren I have left will remember me and perhaps your government will deal with them more kindly. All I wanted was to spend my last days somewhere that didn't sound of gunfire and reek of explosives but it is not to be. Take some advice from an old man. You are still young and full of promise. Live every single day to the full and take every opportunity you are offered so you may end your days free of regret as I will. The chance may not come again.”

 

“Time's up!” barked the officer, clearly bored with a conversation in a language he couldn't understand.

 

The two men shook hands for the last time and Mycroft watched the other man led away.

 

The only good thing about having a detention centre at a major airport was that there was usually a taxi available. Mycroft held it together until the cab was snarled up in the horror of the M25 then wept soundlessly for the man he had just left. 

 

He took Suleiman”s words to heart and directed the cab to drop him in Westminster. He hoped he'd be in time.

 

*

 

Greg was in the middle of closing down the café for the day when the door burst open and there was Posh Boy looking less than his usual immaculate self;instead appearing crumpled and tear-stained.

 

“Hello,” said Greg with a smile. “Did you come back for your umbrella?”

 

“Yes. No. I,er…”

 

“Hang on, I'll get it for you.”

 

Mycroft stood there, his emotions in turmoil and for a man fluent in a dozen languages, he couldn't think of a thing to say as Greg returned with his umbrella.

 

“My partner and I were wondering what the ‘'M’ stood for. On the engraving.” said Greg cheerfully.

 

“Partner?” Oh, fuck. This day couldn't get any worse.

 

“Sally. My business partner. Well, couldn't call the place ‘Greg's’ now could we? “

 

“Business partner. Oh, I…”

 

Greg's expression grew concerned and he made Mycroft sit down.

 

“You look terrible,” he said. “Is there someone I can call for you?”

 

Mycroft pulled himself together and screwed up every bit of his courage.

 

“No. Forgive me, Greg. I don't know what you must think of me. Mycroft Holmes at your service.”

 

He handed Greg one of his business cards which Greg scrutinised.

 

“Human rights lawyer?” He looked at Mycroft and smiled. “You do incredible work.”

 

“Thank you, but my umbrella is only part of the reason I came here. A very fine man today told me to grab life with both hands and that's what I'm here to do. Will you have dinner with me, Greg? Sometime very soon so I can get to know you better?”

 

“I can't tonight. No, let me explain,” said Greg in a rush seeing Mycroft's expression. “Evening classes. But I'm free tomorrow night if that suits.”

 

“Perfect. Keep my card and call me if plans change but I will meet you at The Landmark at eight. Do you know it?”

 

“Yes.” Greg leaned in and pecked Mycroft softly on the lips.”An  _ amuse bouche  _ to keep you going till tomorrow night.”

  
  


Mycroft stood up,briefcase in one hand and umbrella in the other and smiled.

 

“You might be my most interesting case ever,” he said. “Until tomorrow night.”

 

As he went in search of another cab to take him to the office, he realised he was smiling.

  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
